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“Sasscer Hill has done it again! Racing From Death proves that Full Mortality was not beginner’s luck. This is a major new talent and the comparisons to Dick Francis are not hyperbole.” – New York Times Best Selling author, Margaret Maron. Winner of Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Mystery Awards
Racing from Death
“Author Sasscer Hill has hit her stride with her second, and hopefully one of many more, race track mysteries, ‘Racing from Death’.
Racing from Death is a page turner that does not disappoint.” – Martha Barbone, The Horse of the Delaware Valley.
"New Novel about a Laurel Park Jockey is a Wild Ride.
While compared to Dick Francis and Sue Grafton, Hill's work reflects her respect for horse racing and the influence of the late Walter Farley. A page-turner, the book's sentences are short and crisp. The action comes off as authentic." - Sandra McKee, Baltimore Sun, April, 2012
Racing From Death
Racing From Death
Sasscer Hill
It was the worst ride I’d ever seen.
A length ahead of me on the Laurel Park homestretch, eighteen-year-old Paco Martinez lurched wildly in the saddle every time he tried to whip his horse. He looked barely able to stay on, let alone achieve the explosive pump-and-drive essential to a strong finish.
I wasn’t doing so well myself. I plodded behind in last place – hardly a surprise, as my longshot mount had earned the nickname Chokey Pokey. I waved my whip and pumped my arms, but mostly for show. Hitting Chokey was pointless, but a female jockey can’t afford the label, “weak finisher.”
Paco, an apprentice rider on the two-to-one favorite, could afford it even less. As we closed in on the wire a good eight lengths behind the rest of the field, Paco swayed hard in the saddle. His left foot flew from the stirrup, and his arms clutched desperately at his horse’s neck. I was afraid he’d fall, and Chokey would run him down. Somehow, he held on until he crossed the finish line and his horse made it safely back to the groom waiting for Paco’s horse near the paddock.
After dismounting, I got my saddle, stood in line behind Paco, and weighed in with the clerk of scales. Heading toward the building that housed the jockeys’ rooms, I winced when a group of irate bettors gathered on the concrete apron shouted verbal insults at Paco. Once inside, he stumbled in the hall ahead of me.
“Paco, are you all right?” What was wrong with him?
Without answering me, he shuffled away.
Sometimes, people don’t want you to help them. I shook my head and took an abrupt right into the cramped rectangular area reserved for women.
I didn’t feel that bad for Paco. He’d lost a race, but he’d bounce back. And unlike me, he had the more spacious guy’s section farther down the main hall. With a large professional sweatbox. We ladies had a tiny glassed-in booth with floor-mounted steam jets that burned our feet. The guys enjoyed an expert masseuse. We had to settle for Ben Gay.
I stripped off my riding clothes and stepped into a shower, groaning when a stream of hot water hit my tight shoulder muscles. Paco’s bizarre ride had scared me. I didn’t want to see him hurt. I liked him.
In a strange country, struggling with the language barrier, the kid had always been polite and friendly. After I was thrown from a horse one morning, he’d come by my barn to see if I was okay. He’d pulled a small silver-colored religious medal from his pocket and pressed it into my hand.
“Is San Raphael,” he’d said, his smile shy. “Patron of healing. Is for you.”
I couldn’t forget a kindness like that.
While pulling on my street clothes, I heard a thump from the hall. A dull thud followed. What were the guys up to now? Curious, I buttoned my shirt, fluffed my short hair, and opened the door.
Outside, Paco lay on his back, the fingers of one hand splayed against the baseboard as if he'd grabbed at the wall before falling.
"Paco?" I knelt, staring at his flushed face, hearing his ragged breathing. A faint chemical smell drifted from his skin. His eyes fluttered open, then closed. I grabbed his wrist, felt a weak, uneven pulse, and scrambled to my feet.
"Help!" I yelled, as I ran down the hall toward the men’s locker room, slowing before busting into the domain of half-naked men. Screw it, Paco needed help.
“Hey!” I called and rushed inside, almost colliding with one of the Belgado brothers running toward me from the side with a towel around his skinny hips.
I heard pounding footsteps from the back of the room. Mike Jones, the ex-jockey who managed the racing silks, ran toward me.
"What's the matter, Nikki?" he said.
“It’s Paco, he’s hurt.”
I took off, and the guys followed. Then Mike saw Paco.
"Oh, man." He squatted next to Paco and cursed softly. "I told the boy to stop that diet crap. They won't listen, none of ‘em."
Standing, he pulled his cell and tapped in numbers. "Is Doc there? Tell him to come to the jock’s room quick. We got a boy passed out."
I sank to my knees next to Paco. His flush had faded to a gray pallor. Who should we call? Did he have family in the states, or was he on his own? I knew what that was like.
Mike closed his phone and shot a look at Belgado who stood open mouthed, staring at Paco.
"Put some clothes on," Mike said.
Muttering, Belgado trotted back toward the guy’s locker.
"I watched him ride the ninth,” Mike said. “Looked like he had one foot in the grave, way he rode. That boy had the favorite, he should have won! Bettors was cursing ‘n throwing their tickets on the pavement.”
“I know.” I said, glancing away. “I heard them.”
Motion near the entrance caught my attention. Doc Johnson hurried toward us with a large medical bag in his big, capable hands. He set it down next to Paco, his dark face tightening as he examined the jockey.
“Mike,” Doc said, “You'd better call an ambulance." His voice was low and steady, but his eyes held an edge of fear.
Nervously, I twisted the horseshoe ring on my finger, remembering Mike’s reference to "that diet crap.” Paco had passed his weight check after our race; I’d seen the scales’ needle settling at 108 pounds. But the kid had stumbled and almost fallen when he stepped off the rubber plate.
As an apprentice jockey, he was allowed a lower weight. This gave his horse an advantage and racehorse trainers a reason to hire him. At twenty-three, and blessed with a fast metabolism, I didn't obsess about calories. But Paco's sturdy build resembled a fireplug. How had he made 108 pounds?
"Nikki, you need to move." Doc's words startled me.
Rising, I scrambled back as Belgado and some other jockeys came up the hallway. Their faces were quiet and worried. We all stared at Paco.
Will Marshall separated from the group and stood next to me.
“You okay?” he asked, touching my shoulder.
I nodded. Will had ridden against me a few times. He tended to be straightforward and fair, and I liked his green eyes. I found his closeness comforting.
Doc removed his stethoscope from Paco's chest and unzipped a canvas bag. He whipped out small disks and wires connected to a machine with a monitor.
Will leaned forward. "I used to work as an EMT. . . ."
"In that case, here." Doc shoved a blue bottle with a tube and plastic mask into Will's hands, then pressed the disks against Paco's chest. His dark eyes focused on the monitor. With a sharp intake of breath, he pumped his hands frantically on Paco's chest.
Will slipped the mask over Paco's face as a siren wailed in the distance.
Doc's words to Will were almost a whisper. "No heartbeat."
Paco couldn't die. I glanced at the faces of the other jockeys. Worry. Fear. We were the only athletes routinely followed by a moving ambulance whenever we competed. Racing was so dangerous, it could be any of us lying there. It could be me.
Lights from the ambulance reflected off the floor by the entry door. Paramedics burst in with a stretcher, their heavy work shoes loud on the tile floor.
Doc called to them, “We need a defibrillator.”
A muscular, female medic gave the doctor a dismissive nod. "We'll take over," she said, and all but pushed Doc and Will aside before going to work on Paco with a piece of equipment that must have been the defibrillator. Another medic slid an IV needle into Paco’s arm
Doc scooped up his stuff, and he and Will moved out of the way.
I felt like an intruder and walked closer to the entry door. By the time I glanced back, they were maneuvering the stretcher next to Paco. Then, they loaded him up and strapped him down.
The glass door opened, and a tall figure blocked the autumn light. Damn – Maryland Racing Commission’s chief investigator, Offenbach. He walked toward us, frowning when he saw Paco's limp form on the stretcher.
Everyone watched as the medics hoisted Paco up and rushed him out the glass doors to the ambulance.
Offenbach stepped past me to Doc, leaving me to stare at the back of his buzz-cut head. No surprise he’d shown up, since his office was next door, but I was shaky enough and didn't need the investigator on my case again. He always seemed to have it in for me.
I’d been falsely implicated in a crime a while back, and Offenbach had ruled me off the track. Though cleared, I was still uncomfortable around him. Maybe I could ease out of the building. I took a few slow steps sideways, but Offenbach turned, nailing me with those cop-eyes.
"Latrelle," he said, "Don't leave. I want you in my office when I'm done here."
Oh boy. I was too nervous to stand still, so I got a Diet Coke from the machine, then paced the hall. One word from Offenbach, and the stewards could pull my license, stripping me of job and income.
Get a grip, Nikki, you haven't done anything wrong.
I should get over to the backstretch where I worked a second job as exercise rider for trainer Jim Ravinsky. No doubt my racehorse, Hellish, was getting indignant that I was late with her evening feed. Jim didn't like her raising a ruckus, disturbing the other horses.
Instead, I read some notices on the bulletin board, not absorbing the words. Damn. What had happened to Paco?
2
Unreadable as a brick wall, the chief investigator made me want to squirm as I sat facing him in his corner office. Three desks and some filing cabinets crowded the small room. One wall had a cell-like window, and outside, the night was settling in. I felt Paco’s presence, as if he were nearby.
Palms flat on his desk, silent, he just stared at me. I almost confessed, except I hadn't done anything.
"What do you know about jockeys using weight loss drugs?" Offenbach asked.
My face usually gives me away, so I tried for expressionless. "I don't know anything about it."
Offenbach's manner shifted. He placed his elbows on the desk slouching his tall frame forward. "But you've heard something?"
No way a one-time diet drug would made Paco so sick. More likely it was abuse over a period of time. I'd heard of jockeys who "flipped" their meals like a bulimic. I didn’t want to get involved in any of this.
Offenbach had the patience of a barn cat at a mouse hole. I fidgeted on my wooden seat.
"I don't know anything.” I hadn’t heard anything, and wouldn't snitch on my buddies if I had.
"You're better than that, Latrelle."
Was that a compliment? From Offenbach?
The desk phone rang, and Offenbach’s face never altered as he answered and listened to a man's voice I could hear faintly through the receiver. He set the phone down.
"Martinez is dead. DOA at Laurel Hospital." Offenbach's flat eyes assessed my reaction.
A small, "Oh," escaped me. I swallowed. "Do they know what killed him?"
"Not till the autopsy comes in. I suspect something to keep the weight off. You sure you don’t know anything about that?"
"I told you, I don’t."
"You might want to rethink your allegiance. Stopping substance abuse will only benefit you people as a group."
"I don't know anything about substances." I abandoned my attempt at a poker-face and glared at him. "Maybe a few get carried away with diuretics or the hotbox, but mostly, we're the fittest people in the world." How else could we whip, pump, push, steer and stay balanced on thousand-pound animals for distances that stretched as far as a mile and a quarter? "Can I go now?"
Offenbach nodded. I marched out his door through the empty lobby of the racing secretary's office. Outside, a little breeze scattered discarded bet-tickets, and a sickle moon overhead reflected dimly on the small white papers. I hugged my denim jacket tighter against the night's increasing chill. I'd told Offenbach the truth. Didn't know anything about substance abuse. Didn’t want to know.
But someone once told me ignorance is the devil’s best friend.
3
Eight in the morning, the day after Paco died. The track was closed for the half-hour morning break while three tractors dragged equipment around re-smoothing the dirt surface. I'd already galloped five horses and had a few more to get out between eight-thirty and the track’s final closing time at ten a.m.
Lying low in Jim’s office, I avoided my fellow backstretch workers. They reminded me of paparazzi, hounding me for the story of Paco’s death.
A headline caught my attention from the scattered sheets of the Daily Racing Form covering most of Jim’s desk: NEW JERSEY JOCKEYS QUESTIONED IN DRUG USE SCANDAL.
I grabbed the article, sank into a chair, and braced for the barn’s fat tabby cat to pounce on my lap. He did, and once he'd curled in a heap, I studied the paper. Authorities had questioned two jockeys at Monmouth Park about drug abuse. A paragraph of speculation, careful avoidance of the jocks’ names. Not enough information to warrant the big headline.
I wadded the page into a ball and tossed it to the floor of Jim's office. The cat was after it in a flash. The paper bounced off a gallon jug of Bigeloil liniment like a ping pong ball, rolled over a few leather lead shanks, and landed in an empty doughnut box.
Jim stepped into the room as the tabby smacked the newspaper ball into the barn aisle. The cat disappeared after it in a blur of grey and brown fur. My boss didn't say anything, but something that might have been a smile tweaked the corners of his mouth. He sat behind his desk, shoulders stooped beneath his grey hair and blue "Myers Feed" cap.
"Hope you didn't need the front page of the Form, " I said.
"Nah, looks like you made good use of it." Jim's attention settled on me. "Nikki, something I've been wanting to talk to you about."
What had I done now?
Jim waved a hand. "Stop looking like a nervous filly. They're having a late fall meet at Colonial this year. Need you to take our Virginia-breds down for about six weeks. Stay there, act as my assistant trainer."
"Me? Run the whole barn?"
"You got your license, didn't you?"
“Yes, but . . . . ” Could I do it? How many Virginia-breds were there? Six? Eight? I'd gotten my assistant’s license, but only so I could saddle one if Jim couldn't make a race, since only licensed trainers are allowed to saddle a horse in the paddock.
"Wait a minute," I said. "You want me to act as trainer, morning exercise rider and jockey?"
“Yep.”
What if I let him down? This man had taken me off the streets of Baltimore, given me a job, acted like the father I’d never had.
I stood. “You think I can do all this?”
Jim knuckled his shaggy eyebrows. "We've only got five or six Virginia horses. You can take Ramon and Lorna to help out."
He was serious. Not that Jim ever joked. Sure, this was a great opportunity, and Colonial Downs was a beautiful track in rural Virginia. But what about my cat, Slippers, and my horse, Hellish? My apartment.
"Why the special meet?" I asked, surprised I’d heard no gossip.
"Sprinkler system's messed up. Laurel's closing the turf course ’til next spring."
"The Maryland horsemen will love that,” I said.
Jeez, they'd just put in the new turf course. Wider, with excellent drainage, horses traveled on it like a springboard. Except lately it'd been dry, the surface more like concrete than grass.
Jim moved on. "They pay fifty percent on top of purse money for Virginia-breds running at Colonial. Owners are hot to go.”
I nodded. It made sense. A racehorse registered with the state thoroughbred association as being bred, or more accurately born, in Virginia received a big dividend. I did the math. If a horse won a race with a purse of $30,000, his share would be about half, or $15,000. Then the state-bred fund would kick in an additional $7,500 bonus. I'd heard Virginia paid extra money down through third or fourth place. Who could ignore such a lucrative payoff?
Jim gathered the newspapers on his desk. “And the horses will run better if they're stabled at Colonial and not shipped."
I nodded. The track lay halfway between Richmond and Williamsburg. The meet usually took place in the summer when tourist and beach traffic choked I-95 and Route 64, causing accidents and hot tempers. In the fall, the drive would be easier. Still, a long van ride could take a lot out of a racehorse. Runners stabled at Colonial would definitely enjoy a home-track advantage.
Ramon passed by the office door, leading a grey filly down the barn’s dirt aisle. The light caught the glitter of the groom’s gold earring and the glow of oil on his dark, slicked-back hair. He was a good groom, and I’d be lucky to have him in Virginia. Lorna might need a little watching.
A familiar whinny shrilled from a nearby stall.
"Can I take Hellish?"
"Don't want you leaving her here. She'd tear the barn down."
Jim glanced at the battered Purina wall clock. I'd just been dismissed.
4
Spitting rain and a lead-colored sky echoed my mood as I stood across the street from Saint Mary's Catholic church in Laurel, where the track had arranged a memorial service for Paco Martinez.
Appropriately, the event was being held on a "dark day" – a Monday when Laurel's wide turf and dirt tracks were closed to live racing. This allowed jockeys, trainers and backstretch workers time to attend the afternoon service.
Nineteen-year-old exercise rider, Lorna Doone, caught up with me on the sidewalk. Though shorter and rounder than she'd like to be, muscles from galloping race horses made up a healthy percent of her deceptively curvaceous figure. I’d learned the hard way not to tease her about her name. She’d get hot and sharply remind me her name came from the famous British romance novel, not the Nabisco shortbread cookie.
When I held up a side to make a wing for her, Lorna scooted beneath my rain poncho. We huddled together, waiting for a break in traffic before splashing across the avenue.
A flotilla of black umbrellas and raincoats floated along a flooded walk, bobbled up stone steps and through a set of double doors into the church. We followed in their wake, entering the foyer, where I stuffed the wet poncho into a tote, fluffed my short hair, and inspected the crowd. Several pews near the front of the church had room, and Lorna and I navigated through the dawdlers and secured two seats on the right-hand side.
When we settled, I turned to Lorna. She seemed subdued, almost a slow motion version of herself. Her eyes appeared dilated. Was she on something again? She'd been clean, out of rehab for three years. In the two years I'd known her, she'd made me feel I'd found a younger sister, someone precious, someone I'd fight to protect.
I followed Lorna's intent gaze to the front of the church. Three rows ahead, a small group of dark-haired mourners crowded together in the first pew. The respectful empty space on either side suggested they might be Martinez family members. Men in black jackets faced straight ahead. Two women with thick braids down their backs sat to their right.
A third woman wore her hair loose, a black mass spilling on her shoulders. She turned sideways, partially revealing a young face, a dark brow, and an eye laced with thick lashes. She leaned over, her attention drawn to something I couldn't see. A small child?
To her right, water beaded and slid down the outside of a stained glass window, causing the uplifted eyes of a martyred saint to appear to run with tears. Above the altar, Christ on a cross. Brought up Presbyterian, I was unfamiliar with the Catholic Church. I found the warm glow of candles and light scent of incense far more appealing than the religious agony depicted on walls and windows.
Somber organ music rolled to a crescendo, and I realized the priest in white robes stood next to a dark casket. Paco. I looked away, only half listening as the priest spoke about Paco. I tuned in only when the solemn voice described Paco as, "showing great faith and courage as he strove to succeed in a foreign land."
Remembering the little silver San Raphael medal Paco had given me, I didn’t doubt his faith.
The priest's gaze rested on the dark-haired mourners in the first row. "His young wife and child must now share this faith."
Lorna’s breath hissed in, and her body stiffened, making our wooden pew creak.
In the first row, the raven-haired girl collapsed forward into sobs. A smaller wail rose from the seat beside her. One of the older women leaned over and gathered a small boy into her arms. A murmur flowed through the congregation. A woman seated ahead of us dug in her pocketbook for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. Someone behind me whispered, "Tragic."
Lorna shifted again, and ignoring our pew’s creaks and groans, she sighed and leaned into me. She whispered in my ear.
"I didn't know. He didn't tell me." She looked lost, and ridiculously young.
"Didn't tell you what?" I hissed.
"He was married. And we . . . " She didn't finish the half-whispered sentence.
I stiffened, and the priest continued, but I wasn't listening. Lorna had a thing with Paco?
The rain ceased streaming down the leaded windows, and feeble sunlight glimmered through the stained glass. As the priest droned, I wondered if the woman behind me had used an entire bottle of perfume.
By the end of the service, the scent of incense, flowers, and perfume choked me almost as much as the dark, oppressive grief inside Saint Mary's. Pushing through those double doors into the freshly washed sunlight was like escaping a dungeon. Lorna and I gulped in the cool air.
"Can we leave, or do we have to stand around and talk?" Lorna asked.
"Give it a minute. See what happens." Like I knew about funeral etiquette. The only one I could remember was my Mom's, and I didn't want to go there.
We stepped onto the wet grass in our waterproof paddock boots, both of us curious, staring at the Martinez family where they crowded together on the sidewalk.
"She's pretty," Lorna said.
I didn't have to ask who.
Lorna pulled off her jacket, revealing a blue tattoo of Pegasus on her left forearm, and flipped a tangle of red curls away from her right eye. Now anyone could see the gold ring piercing her auburn brow. She’d raised up her tough wall, the one that said, "Don't mess with me."
A tall, slender figure wrapped in an expensive-looking brown raincoat hurried along the glistening walk. A hood covered much of the face, even though the rain had stopped. But the form was obviously female. A bright ring of yellow crowned her brown vinyl boot-tops, flashing unexpected color. Maybe a Panamanian mourner a rung or two up the financial ladder.
The majority of the crowd appeared to be Latino backstretch workers, many of them young, like Paco. A lot of dark athletic clothes and a few cheap suits.
"Uh oh," Lorna said.
Bearing down on us, her hair flying back and her face dark with an emotion I couldn't quite read, was Paco's young wife.
5
Without thinking, I moved a half step and partially blocked the widow’s path toward Lorna.
Her dark hair settled back on her shoulders as she slowed. Her gaze fixed on Lorna.
“I am Teresa Marie Martinez,” she said in a surprisingly soft voice.
Close up, the expression I’d been afraid was anger looked more like despair and pain. Teresa Marie was about Lorna's height, only smaller boned and thinner, her dress hanging too loosely on her frame.
“I’m Nikki, and this is Lorna.” I said, clasping Teresa’s slender hand. “We are very sorry for your loss.”
“Gracias,” She turned to Lorna. “Paco, he tell me about you.”
Lorna’s eyes widened, and I waited for a bomb to explode.
"You in picture he send me,” Teresa said, fingering a gold cross on her neck.
Oh boy. My gaze slid to Lorna, who looked ready to bolt.
“He say you muy simpatico amiga, you . . . how do you say, encourage him?"
“Um, yeah, I thought he needed a friend to . . . I just wanted to make him happy.” Lorna looked like she’d swallowed a wasp.
“We all did,” I said quickly. That hadn’t sounded right, either. “Paco was a great guy."
For the first time, I was grateful for the language barrier. Made it easy to smile, nod, and say almost nothing else.
One of the male family members made a come-here motion to Teresa, and the small child, still in the arms of one of the dark haired women, began to wail. The man motioned at Teresa again, impatience on his face.
Teresa mumbled something quickly in Spanish that ended with gracias and hurried toward her child.
“You think we could just cut across the lawn and get out of here?” Lorna’s gaze cut to the Paco’s family surrounded by well-wishers on the sidewalk between us and the street.
“Good idea,” I strode into the wet grass, once again grateful for those rubber paddock boots. The sunlight reflected off beads of moisture in the grass, and a light steam carrying the scent of damp grass and moist earth rose as we made a bee line towards my Toyota parked across the street.
While Lorna and I waited for traffic to pass, I noticed a man standing on the sidewalk next to my car. A broad-shouldered man with close-cropped sandy hair, he moved to the edge of the curb and stared at us.
“You know that dude?” Lorna asked as we skirted a puddle while crossing the street.
“No, but he looks like he’s waiting for us.”
“He looks like a cop,” Lorna said, putting a hand on my arm as if to slow me down.
“You think everyone is a cop. Lorna, there are cars coming.”
We beat it to the sidewalk, and I searched for the keys in my tote, but they were buried somewhere under the still-wet poncho.
"Excuse me, are you Nikki Latrelle?" The man had a slight southern drawl, putting the accent on the “trelle.”
Abandoning the key search, I turned to face him.
“Yes, I’m Nikki.”
He had a nice enough face, but I noticed his legs seemed too short for his body size. His black shoes were dry and polished perfectly.
He stuck a neat, manicured hand out. "Jay Cormack. Operations and Enforcement, Virginia Racing Commission."
Enforcement?
“I told you,” Lorna whispered, taking a step back and folding her arms across her chest.
The law had busted her for cocaine as a juvenile, sent her to rehab. Her Maryland exercise rider's license, until recently, had been "provisional." She had it provided she stayed clean.
Cormack's steady gaze gave her a quick, speculative once over. “Ms. Doone?”
Lorna responded with a short, defensive nod.
"Your Inspector Offenbach tells me you two will be in Virginia for the meet.” He directed his next sentence to me. “Seems to think you're a stand-up gal, Ms. Latrelle. Quick on your feet.” His voice grew softer, the Virginia accent more pronounced. "Y'all heard about this jockey problem? I’d like you to be my eyes and ears. On the inside."
He hadn't wasted any time, so I didn't either. "Rat out my buddies? I don't think so."
“No way,” Lorna said. Fired with indignation, she suddenly appeared taller and almost menacing.
"Easy, ladies." Cormack's smile was gentle, like his voice. "Just a matter of lettin’ me know if you see something about to go down. I wouldn't necessarily need names, just a heads up." He shrugged as if to say it was no big deal. "I’ve known Offenbach a long time. He thinks you can be trusted. Just thought you might like to help."
I glanced back at the people across the street. A number of jockeys and exercise riders still mingled over there, and that hooded woman’s shadowed face appeared to be watching us. They probably didn't know this guy headed up security for Colonial. But I didn't need to be seen talking to him.
"Mr. Cormack, I can't afford enemies. Riding races is already dangerous. I don't want jockeys thinking I'm some kind of snitch."
"She could get hurt," Lorna added.
Cormack's breath whistled a little between his teeth as he pulled a slim leather wallet from his suit jacket and withdrew a card. "Keep this. Think about it."
I took the card and stuffing it into my tote bag, I found my keys. When I unlocked the doors and we started to scramble inside the Toyota, he spoke again.
"Be real nice if you helped us out, Miss Latrelle."
His words sounded almost like a warning, and I didn't answer.
6
"Scared the hell out of me," Lorna said. "At first I thought she was gonna stab me with a knife or something."
Lorna sat beside me as we barreled down Interstate 95 south of the Washington beltway, the day after Paco's funeral. I stared straight ahead, concentrating on the traffic and the 18-wheeler crowding us from the lane to our right.
I drove Jim's 350 Ford pickup, a stretch-cab that pulled a trailer loaded with six Thoroughbreds. On the seat behind me, stuffed between suitcases and carryalls full of our personal belongings, Slippers, my Heinz-57 part-Persian cat, glowered in his cat carrier. In the rearview mirror, the tip of his tail twitched in indignation. At least he wasn't howling.
On the road behind us, Ramon steered an older Dodge 150 with another groom named Manuel. We only had Manuel for the day, but I got to keep the better man with Ramon. His Dodge pulled a two-horse trailer packed with stuff we'd need — stall gates, rubber mats, buckets, feed tubs, rakes, pitchforks, a wheel barrow, and trunks filled with tack. Our little convoy headed for Colonial Downs.
Since the memorial service, we'd talked about everything but Paco, until a minute earlier when Lorna finally dipped her toe in. One step later, strong emotional currents seemed likely to rip out the whole story.
"I was, like, amazed she was so nice to me."
"Why shouldn't she be nice to you?" There it was, the big question.
Ahead, tail lights flashed red. Though I'd left a long space between me and the car in front, I eased off the gas and pumped my brake, my gut tightening. Didn't want to think about a six-horse-trailer wreck on a crowded interstate. Especially when I held the wheel.
"I didn't know he was married." Lorna twisted in her seat and faced me.
My attention stayed glued to the road. Ahead of us, traffic came to an abrupt halt, one car jerking onto the shoulder to avoid slamming the rear of the vehicle in front. I kept pumping the brake, flashing the rig’s lights in case the guy behind me wasn't paying attention.
Lorna, apparently oblivious to the near crashes around us, plowed ahead. "If I'd known, I never woulda . . . you know."
"Slept with him?"
"Yeah, that."
The traffic reached a standstill. Lorna studied a tear in the blue denim covering her right knee. "We went out a few times, for beer and pizza. It was, you know, platonic. Until the night we went to that Karaoke bar and danced. I had, like, two beers. But I was cool. Then he sang one of those Latino love songs. The dude could sing." Her voice caught at the memory. "He sounded so lonely."
She met my gaze, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "I just sort of melted. But he wasn't even lonely for me, was he? He was missing her."
Engines whined, wheels inched forward, and I pressed on the gas as the traffic rolled south. "You didn't do anything wrong, Lorna. You didn't know."
As the traffic sped up, I glanced quickly at Lorna. "Let it go. You didn't mean to hurt anyone."
"But what if she finds out? I keep thinking about her, the baby, marriage in a church. Vows. All that stuff."
"Paco is the one who should have thought about that," I said. Seemed the guy had liked to tell women what they wanted to hear, and Lorna had bought the whole line. She seemed fragile. How much would it take to push her back to cocaine? My grip on the steering wheel hurt my fingers.
I’d had trouble with a gang of thugs, and the police, a while back at Laurel. Lorna had been a true friend, standing by me when others turned away. I wanted to make it up to her, or at least keep her safe.
#
We found the entrance into the track grounds at dusk, driving slowly along Colonial Downs Parkway, a four-lane road with wide grassy shoulders. About a mile in, we reached an entrance to the grandstand. I slowed, but a small sign indicated the stables still lay ahead.
I almost blew by the turn at Horsemen's Road, an abrupt left with no advance warning. A chainlink fence crowned with four or five strands of barbed-wire surrounded the grounds. A sign announced we were entering the jurisdiction of the Virginia Racing Commission. It felt like a warning.
I was surprised to see the commission and racing secretary's offices in a long cinder block building just outside the gate to the backstretch. Usually these structures were inconveniently located at the grandstand on the far side of the track, instead of here, where the horsemen spent their time. I turned the Ford to the right, toward the stable gate with the inevitable guard house.
I eased to a stop, grabbed a folder with the horses' papers, and hopped from the truck. Lorna unfolded herself from the cab, and we made little groaning noises stretching out the road kinks.
A young blond guy, wearing a big cap with "Security" printed on it, hustled out of the guard house. He gave us a narrow-eyed stare.
"What have you got in there?"
“Six for Jim Ravinsky.” I handed him the folder. He marched back to the trailer, opened a small human-sized door and stepped into the rig. He compared the descriptions on the Jockey Club papers to the markings on the horses, then studied the attached health certificates, verifying the lab results were current. Probably disappointed that everything was in order. He strolled back to Ramon's trailer, looking inside to make sure it was filled with equipment like I'd said and not contraband.
The guard returned and handed back the paperwork, then unfolded a typed sheet and studied it a moment. "You're in barn 23, stalls 50-60. Use only your assigned stalls." Another hard stare. "Follow this road to the very last barn."
We cranked our engines and rumbled past the guard house into the Colonial Downs backstretch.
The sun had set a while back, and the few pink clouds riding the western horizon dimmed to a purplish blue. I thought I'd reached our stable, but it was only number 21. I kept going, not happy when the trees closed in around us, tall pines crowding against the edge of the paved road. The path curved, and I was relieved to see space open up, even if only two barns remained before the asphalt dead-ended at a dark expanse of forest.
No lights. No cars. Nobody.
"This place gives me the creeps." Lorna's fingers fussed with the rip in her jeans.
"Meet hasn't started," I said. "Most people haven't shipped in yet."
"I don't see why we had to get here so early."
"Jim likes the horses to get acclimated." When the truck headlights picked up the number 23 painted on the end-wall just below the roof, I rolled to a stop beside the last barn.
We got out, groping our way through the dark since the truck lights lit the darkness ahead, not the building to its side. Like most racing stables, the rectangular barn held about 60 stalls, 30 per side, backed up, with doors facing out. Wood posts supported a roof overhang that sheltered a dirt aisle outside the rows of stalls. The short ends of the rectangular building had rooms for tack, storage or a cot for a groom. The dirt path continued here, circling before these rooms, too.
The barn, or section of barn that housed a particular trainer's horses and supplies was commonly called a "shedrow," possibly a shortened version of row-of-sheds. Maybe not found in most dictionaries, but the name’s been around forever.
I stepped carefully into this one, my fingers scrabbling along the wall outside the nearest stall for light switches. I found one and flipped it. A single bulb cast a dim light onto the dirt path outside the nearby stalls. The second switch flooded the first two stalls with light. Now we were in business. I soon had our stalls located, with lights blazing all over the place.
Still, Ramon gestured at the woods. "Why they put us here? I don't like. Is so far away."
"Hey, they bedded us down." Lorna stared with relief inside the first stall.
Jim had arranged for supplies with a local feed company. They'd agreed to bed our stalls with straw before we arrived, but you never knew. We had enough work to do without having to shake out sixteen bales of straw.
"They put the hay here." Ramon held a wooden door open, peering into a stall about halfway along our shedrow. He disappeared inside, emerging with a handful of green hay. He sniffed it for mold, then shoved some in his mouth, tasting the quality of the dried grasses. His white teeth flashed. "Is good."
I could almost hear a collective sigh of relief. It was one thing we wouldn’t have to worry about.
Manuel and Ramon set buckets, wire-and-metal gates, and rubber-covered chain ties outside each stall. We got a system going where I wound screw eyes into the inside walls, Lorna snapped buckets on them, and Manuel set up a hose and filled the buckets with water. Ramon worked on hanging the gates across the stall entryways.
Forty-five minutes later, we unloaded the six horses and led them into their stalls. Lorna and I unwound their shipping bandages, feeling through the hair on their legs for scrapes or unexpected heat. Ramon and Manuel loaded feed pails with late dinners. The horses picked up its scent, sweet and fragrant with molasses. They pawed and nickered, impatient for their grain.
Hellish prowled about her new lodgings, inspecting her fresh water, snatching hay from the rack filled with timothy and alfalfa. She shoved her head over her stall gate and stared briefly into the night, finally relaxed and got serious about her feed tub. Her contentment soothed me as few things can.
A moaning cry rode the pine scented air. It came again, soft, pitiful, and far away. I heard a rustling noise, as if something moved through the trees in our direction. A clank sounded just inside the pines, like metal striking a stone. The mournful wail echoed again deep in the woods, stirring the hairs on my neck.
Horse heads emerged over stall doors, their eyes boring into the woods, nostrils flared.
"What the hell was that?" Lorna stepped closer to me. Manuel picked up a metal pitchfork. Ramon whipped out a knife from his jacket pocket, and I grabbed the long metal bar I'd used to turn the screw eyes.
Armed and scared. Welcome to Virginia.
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BACK COVER COPY FOR "RACING FROM DEATH"
Racing at Virginia’s beautiful Colonial Downs twists into a nightmare for jockey Nikki Latrelle. A sociopath sells diet cocktails – killing jockeys who struggle to make racing weight.
Alarming events greet Nikki and exercise rider Lorna upon their arrival at Colonial – strange noises echo in the nighttime woods, a man with haunted eyes drags a dirt-smeared shovel from the forest, and the body of a burn victim lies on the road outside the track.
Nikki’s unease turns to dismay when bad-boy Bobby Duvayne mesmerizes young Lorna with his raw sexuality and a dangerous supply of drugs.
A hidden meth lab, an old family secret, a body buried years ago in the woods, and Lorna’s disappearance pull Nikki into a race against death.
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